Sofia put her hand on her dagger. “Back up!”
People were unsure whether to watch the drama unfold or run. With effort, Giovanni sat up. “Sofia, don’t let this happen.”
Bandieratori of every color looked on, waiting for the order. She helped Giovanni up, then turned to the gonfaloniere and the Doctor. “If either of you hurts another Rasenneisi family when I’m Contessa, I’ll cut you out like cancer!”
When she pushed her way through the crowd, Quintus remarked, “So that’s my new daughter-in-law.”
Relieved to see her going toward the bridge, the Doctor slapped his back with nonchalance. “Lovers’ quarrels defy logic, Gonfaloniere.”
Quintus laughed, equally tolerant. “We’re old enough to know they rarely last.”
Halfway across the bridge, Sofia grabbed the balustrade and looked down at the water, nauseated. There was no escaping the spreading blood.
“Sofia.”
“
Madonna
, look at you. Tano got you a good one.” She laughed despite her tears. “Here, let me see.”
She wiped the blood from Giovanni’s face with her sleeves, then touched his nose tenderly. “It’s not broken.”
“What’s happening tonight?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not safe.”
“If the bridge brings more blood, I’ll never—Sofia, my hands are dirty already!”
She smiled sadly; he imagined he had blackened his soul by following orders, but it took far more than that. “You’re no killer,” she said, thinking of Gaetano. Killers traveled light; guilt didn’t slow them down.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough; you’re the first person I can drop my flag with.”
“That’s only because I can’t use one.”
“Giovanni! I want you to stay—stay forever. That’s what I wished for!”
She tore the Herod’s Sword from around her neck and pressed in it into his hands, then kissed him suddenly. “Take it. I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything,” he whispered.
“Go to Tower Vanzetti. Stay inside.”
“Are you involved?”
“Of course not! They’ll blame each other for Marcus’s murder, but General Luparelli won’t listen to conflicting versions. He needs someone to hang or he’ll raze all Rasenna.”
“What can you do?”
“Find the murderer. Now go. You promised.”
“Wait, I—”
But she was gone, swallowed by the night’s darkness.
Dancing stopped only when fog rose from the river to invade the piazza. The crowd thinned as children were sent to bed and couples stole away. Finally, only drunken old men and their maudlin songs remained.
The Doctor toasted Valentino and Quintus. “I leave the night to better and younger men,” he said, draining his glass. “It has defeated me.”
“Golden dreams,” said Quintus.
The Doctor stumbled by Giovanni on the bridge and wagged a finger. “Get to bed, Captain. Haven’t you heard? There are ghosts roaming tonight.”
It surprised Giovanni that Bardini had let himself get so drunk; perhaps the bridge
had
changed things.
Once over the bridge, the Doctor looked befuddled by the labyrinth of narrow, twisty streets before him and randomly tumbled into an alley.
Gaetano silently dropped from a rooftop and crouched in shadow as the Doctor staggered by. Instead of following, he waited, held his breath, and listened. He could hear only the erratic rhythm of a drunkard’s footsteps. Good. He signaled, and three bandieratori dropped down and drew in on the target. At the intersection of four alleys, the Doctor stopped to urinate.
Gaetano heard the blades drawn; did the Doctor? Unlikely; he was cheerfully singing of the cuckolding cuckold. But when Gaetano crept closer, the Doctor stumbled, pushing Gaetano into the wall, and a sharp elbow cracked his rib. Where were the others? Why didn’t they help?
“First time north, Tano?”
He tried to get up and got kicked in the jaw.
“No, I think not. You’ve visited regularly, haven’t you?”
Gaetano saw the others held at knifepoint by Bardini men.
“That reminds me; you owe one of my boys some flesh.”
As the tall bandieratoro sauntered over, the Doctor held Gaetano’s head still.
“Remember me?” Mule grabbed an ear and pulled.
“Ahhhhhhh!”
“Don’t look away,” the Doctor whispered in the bloody hole in Gaetano’s head. “This is the good part.”
The blood loss was making him groggy, but still the voice kept talking. “Your wedding’s canceled—but don’t be disappointed. The good news is I’m promoting you. By tomorrow, you’ll be the eldest Morello. Don’t thank me; just remember when you wake up who owns Rasenna, to whom you pay rent. That’s thanks enough for me.”
Standing by the resurrected statue, Quintus Morello waited for them to return, their knives wet with Bardini’s blood, the deed done. He looked up impatiently at the somber Lion. “Oh, cheer up, would you?”
Footsteps in the fog.
“Who’s that? Did you get him?”
“Got him.”
Quintus tried to hold himself up against the Lion, but for some reason his legs didn’t work. Secondo pulled the knife out, listened to the gasping for a while, then knelt down and used the gonfaloniere’s long sleeves to wipe clean the blade. “Go to sleep, old man. Dream golden dreams.”
At dawn the towers remained encased in lingering fog, rearing out of the mist like ancient tombstones. Rumor alighted from tower to tower, whispering to sleepers within of some great crime accomplished, and Rasenna awoke, groggy from the night’s revelry and just beginning to remember that they had been foolish, disgraced themselves, received insults cravenly or given them boorishly. The memories of hearty laughter echoed with hypocrisy, deception ineptly masking hatred, disgust still vital.
Any souls with business that morning scurried between the towers like beetles caught in the light. Rasenneisi senses, honed by twenty years of hate, scented fresh blood on the streets.
Only Workshop Bardini was undisturbed by the whispers. It was silent but for the patient respiration of a hundred students, waiting and ready.
A little later than usual the Doctor came down from his tower and smiled to see them sitting there, flags at their sides: his army ready for war if he said the word. “We have cut off the dragon’s head, but its body is twitching yet,” he announced. “Show me your loyalty today. Do nothing. Before the sun sets, the Morello will destroy themselves.”
He looked around. “Where’s Sofia?”
“Nobody’s seen her,” said Mule.
“Or Valerius,” Secondo added.
“
Porca vacca!
Nothing’s easy. All right, goddamn it, I’m going over. Stay put!”
Valerius ran through the sloping streets, his gaze on the space between the rooftops. Someone was following him, but this time he had his flag. He was still scared, though; the Morello would love to drop his body on the Bardini doorstep and let the Doc share their troubles. He turned a corner and hugged the wall, listening. The shadow dropped behind him, and he turned with a showy banner swipe. The shadow dodged the blow with ease, snatched his flag, and threw it away.
“Sofia!” Valerius laughed. “Where have you been? You’re supposed to protect me from the Rasenneisi who want me dead.”
“I’m one of them,” she said coldly. “I know it was you, Valerius.”
He laughed again but took a step back. “What are you talking about?”
“You murdered Marcus.”
“Who?”
“That was his name, the boy you killed. You’re really blooded now. How’s it feel?”
“I preferred you before you started acting like a nun. How did you know?”
“Fabbro Bombelli saw a northerner crossing the bridge that night. Then the Doc told me you’d been spying on me, trying to act like a Bardini bandieratoro.”
“That’s what I am!”
She slapped Valerius with an open hand.
“You don’t raise your hands to me! The Doc—”
“Won’t be in charge after tomorrow. I’m done taking orders from all of you.”
“So what if I killed him? It helped the Bardini, didn’t it?”
“You murdered a paesani in cold blood.”
The cherub’s face creased into a sneer. “That’s funny coming from a Rasenneisi. At least Concordians require a reason to kill each other.”
“Reason? Marcus was a boy—an innocent!” she said, and slapped him again.
He fell against the wall, bursting his nose open, and screamed, “I did it for you!
You!
I love you! You were too busy with the engineer or praying to your pig
Madonna
to notice that the Morello were winning.”
“You don’t know
anything
. You’re a civilian.”
He grabbed his banner. “I’m more of a Rasenneisi than you!” he cried, and lunged at her. Though Sofia hadn’t expected it, she easily avoided his attack—but Valerius didn’t want to connect; he wanted space. He bolted into the fog.
Sofia raced after the receding footsteps. His confession was the only thing that could prevent war. The beast was breaking its shackles. The blood was spreading.
The Palazzo della Signoria’s damp heart looked empty, yet the notary was scribbling as if an especially busy session were under way.
“I thought you’d be here.”
“Try to be more punctual next time, Doctor,” said Valentino summarily. “Let’s not spend all day at it, Notary.” He sat in his father’s chair, wearing the gonfaloniere’s chain and gown, still stained with last night’s blood.
The notary cleared his throat and read with a quivering voice, “The House now votes on a motion to commence hostilities against the Concordian Empire. All in favor?”
“Aye,” said Valentino.
“All against?”
“Are you mad, boy?”
“The Doctor’s abstaining. Notary?”
“The ayes have it. Motion carries.”
The Doctor kept his composure. “Only the head of a Family has a vote.”
“You would enter our towers now, tyrant? I am the rightful head of the Morello. My brother will not contest me.”
“Rasenna would not survive a war, fool.”
“What matter is that?” Valentino said pleasantly.
“You,” the Doctor growled at the notary, “leave. It’s time for a closed session.”
The notary scrambled toward the door, scattering scrolls like a molting lizard.
“Here, take this fool’s bauble!” The mace smashed against the door as it closed.
“The people have spoken, Doctor.”
The Doctor cracked his knuckles. “You want war, boy? I’ll give you a taste.”
Devious bastard,
Sofia thought, realizing Valerius had calculated that he’d be safest on the side of the river where everyone wanted to kill him. She caught up to him on the bridge. In desperation, he turned to fight. She knocked his flag into the river and rapped his ankle with precision. It went
pop,
and he fell with a bleating cry.
“You’ve got to confess!”
Facedown, Valerius snorted. “General Luparelli will want more than contrition. I know my dear father and the people he answers to. The Apprentices will want blood!”
“The Guild will go easier on you.”
“You know that’s untrue.” He sat up and wiped his nose, laughing strangely. “You never cared for me at all, did you? The funny thing is, I thought you loved Gaetano. I told myself you wouldn’t look at me because you’d never love a Concordian. Shall I tell you his name? It’s an unsuitable match.”
“Blood’s not important when you love someone!” She turned away from Valerius in disgust. And standing there—
“Sofia, look out!” Giovanni pushed her out of the way, catching the knife Valerius was thrusting, and they toppled backward together. There was a shrill cry as the knife sank into flesh.
Valerius’s body was the first to move.
“No!” screamed Sofia.
Giovanni pushed him off with a grunt and went to Sofia and held her.
“I thought you were—Oh, Giovanni!”
“Sofia, I love you too!”
Valerius gripped the balustrade. Whimpering, one hand on the knife in his gut, he pulled himself up. “Look what you did to me, Contessa!” He tore the blade out and flung it down in front of her. “I can’t hurt you, not with that, anyway.”
He leaned against the balustrade and tumbled over.
“No!” Sofia heard the splash before she reached the balustrade. She saw his smiling cherub’s face just before the buio pulled him under: a boy happily dying for revenge, a real Rasenneisi, just as he had always wanted.
“They’ll burn Rasenna for this,” she whispered, watching the half-realized forms of buio swarming beneath the river’s surface. She didn’t cry. All she felt was relief that Giovanni was alive.
“We’ll face it together,” he lied, knowing he must do alone what needed to be done.
In Palazzo Morello the students sat facing the Dragon crest, flags ready and waiting, a mirror of the Bardini workshop, but the reflection was warped: they were no longer an army, just leaderless boys facing death.
Earlier that morning, Gaetano had woken in a pool of his own blood. Bardini’s men had dragged Gaetano halfway across the bridge before abandoning him, and he’d staggered home, too delirious to notice the other trail of blood leading to the doorstep. Servants bandaged his wounds and let him rest.
It was only when he stumbled out of bed at noon that he learned of the night’s other events: the wounded gonfaloniere being found on his own doorstep and Valentino, after putting him to bed, leaving the palazzo dressed in his father’s robes of office. Gaetano went to investigate and found his mother spread-eagled on the floor in front of the bedroom door. She was sharing her goblet with the dog. “Gaetano, where
were
you?” she asked. “Valentino’s just come back. He’s a good boy, such a good boy . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Gaetano found Valentino standing over their father’s bed, clasping his hand. “What happened to you?” he asked.
“Doctor Bardini and I had a vigorous exchange of views,” Valentino mumbled through a swollen jaw. He threw down Quintus’s hand. “Congratulate me, Brother. Father has just named me Head of the Family. Will you follow me?”
Gaetano saw his father’s petrified attempt at an approving smile and guessed how Valentino had made his case. It didn’t matter—nothing mattered anymore.
“Where?”
“To war.”
Gaetano kissed his brother’s hand. “My Lord.”